


What to do While Waiting: Waiting

by HyenaKonrad



Series: Wait to do While Waiting: A Johnlock Tale [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Confrontation, Emotional neglect, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is faced with downtime between cases, John proposes that he faces a problem that he's always denied attention; the problem of his emotions.</p><p>The start hopefully of a series of fics. All will be able to be read as stand alones though</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to do While Waiting: Waiting

The waiting was the worst. The in between cases. The sitting on his hands as the world shifts around him yet he has nothing to shift for. The waiting was the worst, and the sludging of his mind was unbearable. He could practically feel his brain turning to mush inside his skull, and waited to feel the distinct sensation of liquid slopping out of his ears as his brain oozed away and slipped through his fingers. Irrational. That sort of thing couldn’t happen short of having some sort of acid coursing through his veins liquefying his body and effectively killing him. Draino would accomplish that. Maybe that’s just what he wanted. To finally liquefy his brain and be done with the waiting.

But the waiting continued. His mood was blacker than the dark locks of hair upon his head. Darker even then his stone cold heart that shut out the world around him and the people who tried to hold him dear to them. No. Stop. He couldn’t get close, and wouldn’t get close. It was senseless to allow people close. Human beings were disgusting and selfish creatures. People hurt others just so that they could live comfortably while others suffered. No. Sherlock would not be hurt. Sherlock would not let others close. But there was a problem, one Sherlock hadn’t forseen.

John. John was the wrench in his cogs. The thing that was stuck and Sherlock needed to pry free. But when he tried to pry that wrench free and put distance between he and John, that INFURIATING man edged himself closer. Sherlock hid in his bedroom, John would knock on his door from time to time to check on him, or send text after text to his phone.

Sherlock

Just wanted to make sure you were still with the world of the living

I left your tea outside the door

Sherlock?

Why couldn’t John leave well enough alone? Why couldn’t John be like Anderson or Donovan and see him for nothing but a freak and leave him BE! But no. No. John wasn’t like everyone else in Sherlock’s life. John was full of concern. John was always hovering over his shoulder. John was always so damn PERSISTENT in being there even when Sherlock spat venomous words at him to scare him off. The more he pushed, the more John pulled. He would NOT be pushed away, even if Sherlock willed it more than life itself.

This evening was a particularly bad evening. Sherlock was once again checking his phone for a text message to find the inbox empty. He snapped open his laptop, refreshing the inbox of his e-mail, to find no new mail waiting for him. No new cases. No new clients. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. He slammed the laptop shut once more, then hopped to his feet in a rush, knocking over the chair, pushing over the table, screaming in his frustration. It was painful. PAINFUL how dull it was. The headache he’d been developing over the past few days was pounding into a full on migraine, his body ached with disuse, his stomach clawed in hunger. The abuse was astounding for how many hours he’s been spending in the flat, which was 24 hours out of each day for much too long. It hurt. Oh how it hurt. 

Sherlock walked over to the couch to fall upon it, curling in on himself, cradling his precious skull with pale, shaking hands. His mind was the most precious thing in the world to him, and it was rotting. It was rotting away and there was nothing to do to nurture it. It was like watching a dear friend die having to wait here, but being unable to do a thing to save them. Waiting here for a case. Waiting to be useful again. Stimulation. He needed stimulation. He needed a zing to his brain to get it tingling and on its feet. Pain? No, he was in enough pain. Pain wouldn’t do. He let a hand drift to his inner thigh, and there he knew the skin was marred with many scars. Scars from self-inflicted harm. Scars from trying to drive himself out of the darkness. The pain no longer helped since pain was a routine thing now with the waiting, as was evident with the migraine he was nursing. Pain did nothing. Pain was not a release. That was juvenile. He needed something more potent. Something that would rightly undo all the effort he had put into rehab in the first place after his first experiments with drugs. Something…

“Sherlock?”

It couldn’t be that late. John couldn’t be back from surgery already. Sherlock hadn’t a clue what time it was. His head hurt too much to open his eyes, or to realize that the flat was rather dark since the sun had set and he hadn’t turned on a single light throughout the entirety of the day. John knew better than to turn one on now. Sherlock was nursing a migraine, bright lights and loud noises were the last thing he needed. So instead he walked over to the fireplace and got it lit, getting a soft light going that would also warm the chilled flat. After that was done, John turned to the man sulking on the couch, back turned to John, curled up in as tight a ball as someone as tall as he could manage on the small couch.

He spoke not another word. Instead he walked over and knelt down beside Sherlock. He let a hand venture to the base of the man’s skull, and he started to massage at the tense muscles. Sherlock tensed further for a moment, feebly attempting to wriggle away from John and further into the couch. No. No contact. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to be close to him. He didn’t want this strange intimacy. He wanted to recant his offer to John all those months ago to move in with him. He wanted to take it all away to save himself from this INSANITY! This constant battle of his heart, the heart he didn’t want to acknowledge or treat tenderly. Sherlock Holmes did not have a ‘heart’ and didn’t do emotions. But the presence of John Watson presented evidence that proved otherwise.

And it was this such evidence that had Sherlock relaxing back into that hand and allowing John to massage at the base of his skull, and eventually run those fingers through that curly hair to work over his scalp. Tender fingers, filled with skill and knowledge of what tense muscles were causing his migraine (tension migraine no doubt) and doing just what needed to be done to undo the pain that was consuming him. But it would always only be a temporary fix, and the new day would bring new pain as Sherlock was left bored and alone once more for his mind to fester with longing of purpose.

“Sherlock, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

John had had just about enough of watching his friend and flat mate wither away into nothing. He felt helpless to stop Sherlock from destroying his own mind, pining for work that wasn’t coming and reaching out into the darkness for some sort of relief from the agony; the pain. Admittedly John hasn’t maybe done all he could to help, seeking relief in his job at the surgery to get away from the dreary flat, but what COULD he do? Well, he knew what he couldn’t keep doing.

“Sherlock, are you listening?”

Sherlock let a grumble escape his lips in response, focusing on the fingers working at his scalp, trying to focus on ANYTHING but the pain, but John wouldn’t let him plunge under. John was through with letting Sherlock drown in this alone.

“SHERLOCK!”

The detective flinched at the shout, twisting his neck to give John a rather nasty glare.

“Yes I’m listening. But to what? What can you possibly do to alleviate the situation John short of going on a killing spree?”

John let out a strained sigh. It was hard being patient with him. It was hard trying to keep calm when he was being just so infuriating. But if he didn’t stay calm, and if he didn’t do something, they would both plunge under at this rate, and then what? What would that help?

“Sherlock, I know times are tough right now and the work isn’t coming. But it WILL come. Where human life persists there will always be chaos, and there will always be someone who wants to bring hurt to others. And that’s where you come in.”

“But how long must I WAIT?! I’m done with the waiting John. I’m BORED!”

John closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to keep himself calm. Calm. He needed to keep calm. But it was hard to keep calm when he was just so bloody frustrated, and maybe even a little panicked. How was he supposed to pacify Sherlock? What could he give him to focus his mind him, a riddle he could solve. Something to sort. Something…something…oh bloody fuck it was in front of him the whole time. The heart of the problem. The one thing he could make Sherlock ponder during his time between cases. The problem Sherlock always refused to confront.

John leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss against Sherlock’s temple, and the man started at this new sensation. 

“John?”

Sherlock eyed him with question, with confusion.

“John, I told you, I don’t—“

“Oh don’t you…”

John rose abruptly to his feet and walked to the kitchen, starting up a kettle of tea. Sherlock rose to a sitting position on the couch, perplexed.

“What?”

“Oh don’t give me that Sherlock. Don’t give me that whole ‘I don’t have FRIENDS’ speech again. You might act like a prick with no sense of feeling or emotional pain, but do you know what I think? I think it’s because you’re scared. YOU, Sherlock Holmes, are scared of feeling pain. Of feeling vulnerable. Of feeling like you can’t be in control of a situation, so you just block everything out. Well what if I won’t let you? How about instead of letting yourself be so DAMN bored in between cases, you sort out your emotional problems, which I’m sure you have enough for a lifetime!”

Sherlock was reeling. No. He wasn’t’ facing this. Sherlock wasn’t facing his heart, and wasn’t facing his past, and wasn’t facing his emotional hurts. No, Sherlock wasn’t going to do this. The walls were closing in. The collar of his shirt, loose as it was since he was simply wearing a pajama shirt, was tight around his neck. The air in the flat was warm and stifling. He couldn’t breathe. Sherlock took in a sharp breath, then another, then his breaths came in short desperate gasps.

“No…no…”

“Sherlock?”

John had quite expected Sherlock to storm off to his room in anger. He had expected him to shut down and shut John out. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to go in a full blown panic attack.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!”

John walked over with his hands up in resignation, Sherlock pressing himself against the back of the couch as he eyed John with wounded eyes. He looked ready to bolt, like a startled deer, and the last thing Sherlock needed right now was to be alone. John had ripped open Pandora’s box, and now he needed to be there to deal with the damage. Now that he had Sherlock where he wanted him, he had to show Sherlock that he could trust John, or else it would undo EVERYTHING!

“Sherlock—“

“John, I don’t WANT this!”

“Want what?”

“EMOTIONS! SENTIMENT! I…I don’t…WANT it.”

Sherlock could feel his chest tightening, and feel how it HURT! How it beat so fast and so hard, how his throat knotted and how he was sweating to the bone, shivering despite the fire now roaring nearby.

“John sentiment brings nothing but pain. You entrust these…these secret and intimate thoughts and feelings to someone, someone you trusted not to betray you. Only to have them do just what you couldn’t stand them to do. They took your emotions and played with them. Because they aren’t theirs, so it won’t hurt them. What consequence would it be if you played with my emotions? Would it hurt you if you were to wound me? No, it wouldn’t. So what is the point of this foolishness of trust but to play games? Do you want to play with my heart, John? Do you want to USE me for your ill purposes? I will NOT play your sick games!”

John was awed to silence. He was disturbed. He was sickened. Sherlock’s words were filled with so much venom and loathing. Who had betrayed his trust so dearly? Who had driven Sherlock to believe that emotions were merely a leverage used for self-gain? Oh Sherlock. John walked forward slowly, his expression calm, caring, open, keeping any hardness off of it.

“Sherlock. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not here to use you. Easy…eeeeasy…”

Sherlock set his jaw, his eyes accusing and full of mistrust. Could he really believe that? Anyone he’s ever lay his trust in has used him for some purpose, only to tell him that his own wants, desires, NEEDS weren’t important. Hence the steeling of his heart and the distance he put between himself and all others. But John was rocking that foundation and trying to destroy it. Trying to destroy all that safety Sherlock had created for himself. The walls were coming down and he didn’t know what to do.

But he didn’t make to bolt. After many long moments, John was kneeling before Sherlock again, a gentle hand set upon his knee, rubbing it tenderly to sooth the startled man.

“Sherlock. I need you to understand something; I’m not those other people.”

A scoff.

“So many others have said that. You honestly want me to believe that you’re somehow different. That you could possibly mean well for me?”

Well when Sherlock put it so bluntly, it was hard for John to make his point. But when he got to thinking on it, blind faith was about all he had. Sherlock just needed to believe him. 

“Sherlock, I’ve killed for you. I’ve followed you into unknown perils without promise of coming out of it alive. WILLINGLY! I don’t do it just for the thrill of the chase Sherlock. I do it to make sure YOU get out of it alive. Because I know you. Your work; it’s all you’ve allowed yourself to have for a long time, and you’ll dive into danger without thinking about the consequences. So I have to be that rationality, so that you DO make it out alive. So that you can solve another case, save another life, live another day. Here, with me. Don’t you GET it you bloody idiot?”

Sherlock felt a swelling in his chest, and instead of that chill, he started feeling incredibly hot, his cheeks flaming red. Oh his ears were burning. He clapped his hands over them, chewing at his lip. Processing. Processing. Couldn’t process this information. Care. How do you process care? Can you deduce feelings? What can one deduce about them? Emotions were so slippery and shifting, ever changing and never the same. You can’t pin them down and can’t put simple facts to them. Which is why Sherlock would rather not face them. But it seemed that John wasn’t going to let him back away. Not this time. No backing down and no ignoring.

Suddenly Sherlock felt that he wasn’t quite so bored. His mind was simply REELING with the new information and feeling that was bubbling inside of him. He steepled his hands beneath his chin, peering down at John with and expression that was both cold and yet perplexed, then he rose to his feet and crossed over to the window. This was a lot to digest, a lot to sort through. John rose to his feet to fetch the tea, pouring both he and Sherlock a cup before he sat himself in his armchair, finally able to relax after his long day. But he didn’t mind coming home to look after Sherlock. He used to mind. He used to feel nothing but intense irritation when these black moods consumed the detective. But more and more John found himself growing less irritated, and more protective, and felt more of a longing to heal those hurts.

Behind that brilliant mind, there was a lot of damage. Behind those brilliant eyes there was a lot of hurt. Sherlock’s life was filled with a lot of wrongs, and the people in his life have worked hard to make him believe no one in the world could be trusted with his humanity. Well John was going to undo all of that, and make Sherlock see that maybe, just maybe, there was at least one person in this world he could trust. Even if it was just one. Even if it was just John.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright here's my first fic! Hope you all like it and leave constructive criticism to help me improve my writing skills and improve my story as I develop it!  
> I would really love to write a good many Sherlock fics, so give me ideas if you have any you'd like to see written and I can give it a shot!


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